Risk

26 letters of joy filled tears of wonderment at how shapes can create sounds, morpheme, the traditional meaning of a word, can conjure images, pigments, roughness, memoirs, reservations, and the naggings of what might have been. Then tell me you abhor literature as I have heard from friends and students. No photo, capturing a 100 words that drip insults, insolents, and audacious behaviour come close to the sentiments of the warmth of a Mississippi summer evening sitting on veranda sipping lemonade looking out of cotton fields, white tailed cotton balls on brown popsicle sticks.

Listening to the eyes of a black man that has just been fired for pulling over a governor, asking his superior on the CB what to do and being given full authority to drive him home, tow his car, and let it go and then the next day being fired by a black boss trying to make heat, throw someone else under the bus to get a promotion. Without a thought he was out the next day looking for another job, not a county in the district would hire him regardless of his righteousness.

His voice weighed heavy in his throat as we spoke quietly in the back of a small, very small 12 by 12 foot gas station being staffed by a woman that had worked for 20 years, not by choice yet by necessity at the local factory, to feed her children, feed her life, her spirit, to keep going, even when for the last 3 years she had been promoted to a supervisor without a pay raise. Never mind bringing it up with her superiors, she had several times and each time they asked her if she knew where she worked, whether she could appreciate that she had a job.

Now for the first time, she was asked by some white woman trying to wrap her head around something that was so foreign breathing through gills seemed simpler. Her stature spoke more of who she was as a citizen, a human being, a human that flourished this damned planet and yet she was condemned because of color. I knew if I listened much longer I was going to scream in this tiny compartment in my mind. Get out and deal with your own mess, you got enough of it, why the need to be here and deal with them. The lilt in her voice brought me in like a babe to midnight milk there was little holding me back. I vowed to stay in touch and I made good. She has never left the factory after 2 more attempts to increase her pay or go back to the floor where they wouldn’t allow her to go because she knew too much. I felt her eyes asking probing me what to do, a woman 15 years my senior. I had no right, my place wasn’t there,

Having just entered the Zion Missionary Baptist Church that holds 3000 black folks wondering where the progress has come from the 1960 and crying in my room at the Regency Hotel that his hosting a whopping 4 guest because the crime rate of Jackson is so high no one will stay in the center of town. I never understood how a heart was broken until Jackson. I wondered around in my mind every aspect of life I wanted to be a part of changing, why me, why here. What was my connection and why was I so damned in need of helping these folks that truly wanted nothing to do with a white child of ignorance from the north. Why had the governors of Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee crept under my skin shingles on hold as anger seeped like oil in Texas bubbling irrepressibly irresponsibly where it didn’t belong. Hours of listening to their decrepit voices on the radio in my hours, days of driving from state to state, from reminder to reminder of what hasn’t changed. Whatever happened in the north, regardless of the positive effects on the economy they weren’t interested in it. The blacks were simply a commodity that were in the wrong place at the wrong time for what the last 400 years. No wonder they were outraged fighting back breaking shadows nightmares of what 15 generations had experienced.

Presently I reside in Calgary like a caged animal trying to figure out what my purpose on this planet is and how to live out the remaining days. Sure easy enough to go back to the same old, yet what my soul yearns to do is make changes outside of the affluence of my surroundings. Finally decide to walk the talk living out the remainder of the years with those that Jesus would have treated like God’s at this table. The question is how to do it without breaking the decree, breaking my psyche, my family and friends? They don’t deserve my guilt, my intents, my needs, or desires, they deserve the best of what God can conjure up in me. Yet unlike Madison County I can’t stay and do nothing. All the volunteer work here isn’t going to make changes where it is truly needed in areas that don’t speak up, where a voice needs to be written, not spoken.

Balance what is it, when for the first time in my life that I haven’t stopped and accessed my purpose on a metaphorical level. Equilibrium is the measure of a man’s life. Hal and I walked down the street and wondered what if we won, we truly won the lotto, not that we miss the immeasurable and necessary step of buying a ticket, yet what if we won, why aren’t we doing what we would do if we won, right now? Is it money that is truly stopping us, or time. So here is my new year’s resolution.

No, not to lose weight, nor join a gym, those are first world problems, the more you think about it. Why isn’t everyone in the developed world trying to heal this miraculous planet of ours? When did we become so removed from mother earth that plastic inanimate objects fill our void, or synthetic psychotic drug kill the rich. How many millennium have taught us that relationships, connections to another mortal permeates, satiates, all fallacies. Each summer my fingers long for the grit of our backyard mire to teach them how to grow our victuals. Never a season passes that I am not amazed at the wonders that come forth from our garden.

Human spirit is all we have left as a world. Nothing more, nothing less. It is the groove in Stella's that crazes us to do the unthinkable, love the unlovable, and be the unbelievable. Each childhood dream is a reality that screams to be performed. Every adult plunges another opportunity to earn another buck, for that has become a dream, and what we do with it.....memories without touch.

God has taught me to surge without thought, leap without doubt, and fail valiantly. Risk, a four letter word, a board game, an illegal act in the first world saves lives everyday in far off lands where choice isn't an option.

 

Christmas 2 - Dec. 25th

My father began telling stories of his childhood, “When I was about 6 or 7 my mother would send me from Montreal on the train to Welland, Ontario to visit my grandmother. The post master of the train would have to make sure I got off the train in Toronto and got onto the right train for Welland. The local boys would invite me to go swimming at the pool. I knew I didn’t know how to swim but the lure was too great. And, sure enough someone pushed me into the pool. I recall floating down to the bottom and seeing all the sports teams he has gone and seen and his parents love, not truly recognizing that he was drowning therefore no panic struck him to flare about. All of a sudden he was plucked out of the pool by the back of his shorts by the lifeguard.”

Then Harvey, 82 years old carried on. “I recall being young and living on a farm when my mother said I needed to go the local school gym to see the doctor. When I arrived there were several beds set up around the gym. The doctor came and took me by the arm, asked me to lie down and proceeded to take my tonsils out.”

“Was there no antithetic?” said Taylor cringing.

“No, we simply had the operation in the gym and were asked to stay for a while and then sent home.”

“Do you remember how much pain you were in?” I asked.

“I recall getting a nice cold coke on the way home.”

Hal began telling stories of the myriad of times he and Bill, his best friend were getting into trouble. “We were trying to place new seat covers on, when the latch sprung back and hit me in the eye. I knew something was wrong when Bill said nothing, and when I looked in the mirror and couldn’t see my eye. Off to the hospital we went and they kept me there for 2 weeks. I had hemorrhaged my eye. I didn’t want my mother to worry so I told Bill to tell her I was at his house. Days later the hospital called my mother and asked if there was any heart conditions in our family. She couldn’t figure out why the hospital would be questioning her about her family’s hearts. They told her Hal was in the hospital and had been for some time. She freaked.”

Kohlman and Taylor had been listening to one story after another from the elders and must have been thinking. Either that their dad was accident prone or that no one ever cared for youth back in the day, or that there were no boundaries. They also must have wondering that the mere bruises, bumps they had endured were nothing compared to the broken bones, lacerations, and near death experiences of those around the table. Knock on wood that none of us would have to sustain these incidents.

Hours rolled by, food was eaten, gifts were exchanged yet what was so amazing was how 12 people that I love were present, no phones, no necessity to leave, experiencing one another’s lives. Kohlman and Taylor sat quietly listening and I hoped they were absorbing the adoration they were surrounded by they were a part of. 

Christmas 1 - December 13th

The family is to bare down on our home on the 13^th of December. Could we have gathered on any more of a superstitious day or have fewer stars align in our constellation. Bare down might not seem joyous yet in all families Christmas tension weighs heavy when we yearn for something that might not be, in our power to control the outcome. Weeks prior I began praying fruitlessly as my daily daydreams where filled with nightmares. I recalled not a piece of scripture, a parable. ‘Look for goodness and you will see it, seek mistakes and they will surely arise.” Like a junky I was roll playing every possible scenario -trying to be the heroin that was going to solve it all. In reality I wasn’t looking for the best, only playing out how I would control others. 3 days of attending early morning mass brought this to my attention. And, like all recovering addicts I needed God to realign my fraudulence. When I have been accused of needing God by non-believers I am fervent when I express my crutch for the Lord, my daily dose of reason that I crave, for my mistakes are many.

Epicureanism flows like the Ganges at Christmas in the western world, and our home was no different until a myriad of calls like a spider’s web drained the elements of surprise from the day. It was now sanitized. Like a world that wants to know what they will experience on their travels, the element of the unknown is becoming the norm. Ah…..the joy of satiating new flavors, scents, textures, and sights was gone.   

Yet God always has a way of challenging those with open hearts. I prayed daily prior to the 13^th with extra fervency as the day approached trying to rid my need to control and God never disappoints when I release my grip. A Chinese gift exchange, everyone was to bring a gift, or a re-gifted present of $10.00 or less.  12 members of my family jostled over unopened gifts in the living room after a lengthy meal. Hearing the rattling of gifts, laughter, and pure jubilant mirth resonating in the room for long moments still rings in my ears. Nothing could have replaced these precious hours together.

I watched my family, those that had frustrated me, angered me, and loved me for whom I was enjoying one another’s company. There is no gift that can replace this, absolutely nothing. For hours we reminisced about old Christmas’ amongst the hilarity of gravelling to figure out what to steal from one another with these unopened gifts that we were dying to find out what was inside. When the preserved duck eggs where finally revealed, along with the 72% dark chocolate, books, mini growlers, leather covers, and Filipino candy what struck most was the essence of peace we had found in one another.

Christ had arrived in our home mainly in my heart. I hadn’t ruined the day with my necessities. I had allowed the fluidity of a tributary to weave, interweave naturally seeping into crevasses, clefts, and cracks overflowing itself with amity. 

An Etherieal Measure of Time

A finishing carpenter doesn’t truly describe the expertise Sean has. His work is displayed in the numerous million dollar homes around Canmore, and the mountain villas of Alberta and B.C. and equally important in an expert is the ability to put up with a neophyte like myself. I’d missed the wake-up call holding a steaming cup of coffee at my computer anticipating several moments to play as his car pulled up. I watched for several seconds as he moved into gear, there was no warming up, his movement were deliberate, calculated, like the climber he is, his harness was on for a multi pitch day.

The evening before Hal and I had finally read the boxes, all 14 of them piled up in the living room for the last several weeks. Remove the contents for 72 hours prior to installing for the wood to acclimatize……WHAT???? To late the deed had been done.

I’d gone to 7 flooring showrooms in town to check out the stock, quality and learn the business. I knew nothing after 2 weeks on the job. Sure I’d learned that there was a grade to wood depending on how much grain you were interested in seeing names like– Tavern, Junior, Bare – meant you saw it all then there was Mill Rate – where you saw some grain, then there was Best and Select where the grain had been stripped out of the wood.

I felt like I was teaching Biology 30 once again, learning all the variety of trees I’d just seen in Tennessee some of which were being sold here. There was Oak, Ash, Maple, Fir, Cherry, Balsam, Birch, Pine, Walnut, Wedge, Willow, Aspen, Beech, Elm, Poplar, and Sandalwood just to name a few. Did you want prefinished or not, spice, stained or rough matte? Maple alone had 16 choices of color and then you had to decide who to order from there were no fewer than 8 companies within each showroom. It is a labyrinth that only the hearty should tackle.

The hardness scale was simple enough yet the humidity was anyone guess. Between 7 shops not one was consistent on where to set the meter in our home, it ranged from turning it off completely to 50% all year round. Hal and I weren’t interested in opening a conservatory garden just yet. With little time to play around with the dial we choose 25%.

When I brought home the 2 X 3 foot pieces of wood samples to view what was vogue, in style and selling in new homes, again the fashion was as varied as Prentice caucus.  What you brought home didn’t elicit the true color. We were routing for Hickory as it was harder than Prentice integrity yet once seen on a large floor Hick was how we were feeling. So Maple it was – Mill Rate- which meant you saw some grain yet it wasn’t dancing with knots. The charm, class and there lack of in some establishment was pretty consistent, except when it came to Windsor Plywood and Timbertown.

When we finally chose to work with Timbertown the boys knew me by name after my forth visit. Bashful in an unfamiliar environment I meandered around to find the products I needed with superlative advice. Price, quality, service and a smile was what I received. No the wood wasn’t free, yet we felt relatively comfortable until Sean found out the price.

“Man that is expensive they should have given you a better rate.”

“Sean I got the 10 % discount and then bargained for the women’s rate and got another 4 % off, I thought that was pretty good.”

There was always a crux in flooring, the cold air return, the lack of 90 degree angles to a square room, bowed wood, curved wood, and our bodies. That was the hardest crux of all. I was so excited it probably took a good 4 hours prior to comprehending that my spine wasn’t designed to move in this space and shape.

Sean was a professional while he moved along with the airgun hammer thumping nails into the wood, I scurried along like a scandalous politician trying to keep pace placing boards into place. I held a piece of wood between my thumb and forefinger and hammered the wood into place just ahead of Sean. The only problem was that I wasn’t able to run fast enough to find wood lengths whose seam wouldn’t line up with the previous row. I blew it once and the zigzag pattern was visible.

“Kathryn, Dan is going to see this and he won’t be please, tell him you did it”?

“No problem Sean, don’t want to ruin your reputations, mine hasn’t begun, at least not in this industry.”

Secondly, I wasn’t able to find 7 new pieces of wood in time to get back and gently, which is an exercise I had to learn graciously from Sean’s, tap them into place before Sean was upon me. My thumb and forefinger twitched uncontrollably for 3 days after this drill. Massaging it during church service was an indication that things weren’t going well.

Then the questioning began. I’d seen so many you tube video’s I felt I had to comprehend why he wasn’t dragging the gun along the floor as they had shown to conserve energy.

“Kathryn, see this pad on the bottom. I’ve placed it there so the tiny bits are not scratching the floor. If we drag the machine a tiny specks might scratch the floor.”

This became my first and last question. I rested in his expertise, much like a wise courtesan resolves to unravel in the company of great lover.

By late afternoon the curvature of my back was permanently hunched. I texted Hal to come home immediately forgetting the parent that so desperately needed to see him, I was on my last leg. 10 hours with two short breaks did the trick. At 3:00 p.m. when Sean said he had to be gone by 5:30 I looked at the floor and then at him, said nothing and moved.

Sean’s alacrity was still engaged. “Look Kathryn a bird’s eye.”

I looked at the piece of wood without the joy he was showing me.

“Don’t you see, some people seek out these pieces and demand an entire floor made of these?”

Our speed had depleted, the rambunctious conversations had diminished to grunts on my part. He handed me wood, I placed it in and we worked for the remainder of the afternoon in silence.

When Hal did arrive I was overjoyed to teach him what to do, yet he wasn’t picking up the technique and with a mere meter to go to the back wall, it resided in finishing while he lifted the heavy boxes for me and found wood. I would continue hammering yet in his presence there was some relief. His joy and excitement at the final product was jolting me back to reality, as my mind was now wandering to Japanese bath houses, saunas, massages and acupuncture.

Sean left to volunteer firefighting training before we could fully appreciate his work. I fell onto the floor yearning to sob yet my bones were literally too tired to weep. If the notion to do this again ever came upon me regardless how enthusiastic I wouldn’t……find a carpenter…if you can.  

Striping Terrazzo and Tiling without the Professionals

The romantic notion of renovation got its luster when I was 26 reading a book by Karen Connelly who had recently moved to Greece for the year remodeling a home she was renting. The grand difference being it wasn’t hers, so truly her investment was finite. Mine was infinite with the myriad of phone calls, internet chat time with the better business bureau and locals to find reliable trades people might have been my demise. Yet being persistent I continued.

“Kathryn, why are you so surprised?” said Sean

“I’ve hired people that show up at 10:00 in the morning already drunk. This country in infamous for it. People get paid really well in the trades so after several work sites they blast off to another world that is the reality.”

“I’ve been on the phone for 3 hours trying to get 1 tile tradesman to commit. Two haven’t shown up that were booked. I’m not proficient in this trade you know.”

“Ah Kate you will be.”

Bending over pulling the rug from its roots while Donna, a dear friend who came to help, held the other end as I took a rug hook and sliced pieces feeling my shoulder muscles at work was rewarding. My first inclination was wow….this has an primordial movement, down on all fours man handling large morsels of synthetic material has its place. Using muscles for labor felt good, even though I had to stop numerous times to rest my pathetically weak arms. It brought me back to my grandmother as she beat eggs, butter, and batter for long moments without rest. A German friend Andrea bakes bread weekly and she too has arms that ET would brag about. To this day no amount of push-ups or arm exercises has me past a 15 second grind with a mixing bowl.

The unveiling of brilliant green underlay was rather stimulating, far more cushion than expected and wonderful knee pads as we pain stakingly removed how many staples from this floor. I thought for sure a day later carpel tunnel syndrome was going to creep up. I gained a new appreciation for this craft and the folks that work in it.

The tile craftsmen never did show up, not one of the three, I did it myself after viewing and reviewing numerous YouTube videos. Since there were only 6 tiles to place, I spent the better half of 2 hours trying to shave off the grout from the exiting tiles prior to placing the new ones in. While at Rona the “Professional” told me to forget about the tool for spreading grout. I ventured to do it with a new flip flop…..it didn’t work.

The floor was to be done 2 weeks later, when a friend offered to show up in 3 days the heat was on. I hadn’t found slutter which I was going to have to cut to surround the exiting tiles yet I was becoming resourceful at this point. Learning the lingo of the trade, I asked the same “Professional” at Rona who I was now visited several times a week what to do. He had no solutions. I let my eyes do the walking up and down the aisles and found 2 aluminum bars that would do the trick. Bounding glue fastened the 2 strips into place along with green painters tape to keep the height we desired.   

Mixing the mortar seemed effortless like baking. A little water mix and voila…not so…it took 25 minutes to get the right consistency. Like many of my projects I don’t like wasting food, clothing, or for that matter anything and mortar was no difference I got exactly the amount I needed. Watching the videos and trying to pick out the meticulous methodology was tough. When your good you make it seem natural.  

Nerves can get the better of you even with eclectic music serenating you in the background and pulling the mortar back and forth not too close to the edge and not too deep as to impinge the grout to later go in between had me moving back forth and then diagonally. The tongue and groove appliance that you spread the mortar onto the floor boards didn’t measure height. Eye balling the height using the leveler over and over to make sure they were uniform was trickier than anticipated as the tiles were level yet not necessarily with the existing ones. Discrepancies still turned up. You realize early on that no one but yourself will be as scrupulous as you are so leave it.

The next day the grout was a little more humorous. I had measured exactly the amount and while waiting for it to gel I scurried around the house to find an appliance to spread it with. First I looked for an old credit card, then an old book with a hard binding, my painting equipment turned up nothing, the kitchen didn’t prove helpful either, out to the garage as I knew we had foam to sit on while backpacking, too soft, then into the crawl space catching cobwebs in my hair, and finally into the laundry room where I found a brand new pair of flip flops I had given to Taylor which he hadn’t used. Firm enough to hold the grout and strong enough to spread diagonally. Nothing could have been worse, it wasn’t spreading evenly pockets were seen everywhere. I tried my fingers making matters worse and finally relented into doing it again later. When the professionals at Rona says find a tool in your home, they might be thinking you have all sorts of gadgets to work from, buy it, just buy the darn thing.  

Reintegrating the How To

When I first arrived home there was so much to catch up on, I spent the first week listening to everyone’s summer, wrote like mad to capture the essence of what I had learned in the Deep South, and connected with my family.

Now having been back a month the speed of my days hasn’t slowed down, fears of the year passing by without accomplishing the myriad of learning I would like to do is real. I have learned the most important aspect of each day is the time I spend with God. The more time in his presence the less I am concerned about needing to fulfill unnecessary events. The greatest part of the day I miss sharing with my students is the 5 minutes at the beginning of every class discussing God. After almost a decade of repeating scripture 3-4 times a day it seeps into your being, it become the fabric of who you are. And, the kids proved it, when asked to draw me they all drew the catholic rosary and crosses. All aspects of my classes were based around God, now I am forced to think about it, being present with him throughout my day, consciously seeking his existence and going beyond acts of kindness to acts of daily prayer. Appreciating his wonder in so many areas of my life.

It’s hard for me to be in the present. My students forced me to be with them and now I have to become the compass. I note discipline in so many others around me, they are my guiding light, to slow down, enjoy the moment, knowing it won’t return, a book, a chat, a new skill learned, a new friend is cherished.

Renovations were going to be my metaphor for a novelette I was going to write, and yet they have come and gone and I feel less satisfied as I took them on as a task instead of a time to truly be who I am, my capabilities and the expertise that came from my community. Having an extremely project based personality there are several objects that I set out for myself to accomplish. I know friends are always telling me to relax, yet for me I don’t want to return to work without having this precious time to be with God doing his work.

Every day is a blessing and I want to be with God regardless of where and what I am doing.

That being said, what are my goals?

1.      Catholic Post – twice a week.

2.      Continue with blog – once a week

3.      Write experiences of this year

4.      Creativity work – read – design and work with new professionals

5.      Volunteer – work where it is needed

6.      Travel – allow God to guide me here

7.      Family – reach out to all members with a new perspective on love

8.     Art

A Families Devotion

I met Wayne when I was working at Heritage Park in grade 11. I recall him well, a man who had a passion for the Lord. I recall we were sitting overlooking the reservoir at lunch one day and he drew a cross on a piece of paper and asked me what my relationship was to the Lord.

Right then I knew this man was different and as the years went on. Wayne informed me of his lovely lady Lynn, his present wife, and that he intended to marry her. It was the first time I’d ever heard of anyone consciously deciding to take time away from a loved one to make sure they were both making the right decision. Their devotion to the Lord prompted my first step as I began studying the bible further at University with students from all over the world.

After Memphis I returned to their home in Franklin, Tennessee and saw the progress of their move. They were mobilizing an entire life, family and home in mere weeks to California. I arrived to find friends of theirs clambering over boxes in hopes of helping them pack. They worked all night in preparations for the movers the next day. Their calm demeanours, gentle tones, and ability to work through exhaustion as I slept for 6 hours while they forged through the night was amazing. I thought about my family and knew there is no way we could have accomplished what they did in the serenity that existed.

In some small capacity I tried to help out. Their family invited me into a vulnerable time and their composure and love for one another brought me to my knees. The girls checked in on one another throughout the day and supported their parent’s myriad of tasks that needed to be done. From the cable company, to telephones, to transferring cars, shredding personal documents, loading recyclables for the depot, and reaching the bank on time. I recall the last day when Lynn and I were transferring their king size bed to the recycling. With a mere electrical cord available as the movers had left, all five of us heaved the bed onto a tiny truck already teeming with boxes of condiments, rugs, cardboard, and garbage and as we sailed down the highway slowing traffic as we didn’t want to lose the bed as it levitated into mid-air. I was laughing so hard wondering if I should jump onto the bed to hold it down. I prayed that the cord would hold.

When the recycling gents wouldn’t take the condiments the girls and entered a city park and like fugitives waited for the sheriff to leave, we tossed hot spices, mangos, chutneys, molasses, lemon curds, mayonnaises, salad dressings, pickles and olives into the bin thinking what we would say if caught. “Oh we just had a lovely picnic officer, but couldn’t get through all these condiments.”

As all this was evolving their family generously donated 35 boxes of coats, pots and pans, bed frames, hangers, and lacy dresses, mirrors, pants, books, tables, lamps, and nail polish. The truck pulled up expecting a contribution and left billowing over with bounty.

Meanwhile amongst this complexity the new owners were showing up at the house with painters, counter top specialists and flooring experts. They seemed somewhat oblivious that this family might have needed some time and space to pack.  They sauntered in several days and spent time measuring, discussing and evaluating at their leisure. The Headley’s didn’t flinch, they moved between the samples and accomplished a monumental project. I am happy to say that we bonded a little more and I am forever indebted to them for allowing me to spend time with them. For what they couldn’t have known was I needed to be serving, and God always has a way of conjoining his disciples. My time in the south could not have happened without them and they are forever in my hearts as friends, in God.

A Message of Love

Martin Luther King was a man of love. He devoted his entire life to honouring his brothers and sisters of all races, gender and creeds that for a nation to be truly free every man, women and child has to be upheld in respect, dignity and love. Throughout the south King attended many rallies in support of the Freedom Riders, to the Sanitation workers of Memphis, who were striking, not for equal pay but for decent pay. They were in their 25th day of strikes when the major of the Memphis refused to increase their pay to their white counterparts. They demonstrated peacefully for weeks at the hands of police brutality.

It became evident throughout King’s mission that non-violence was having far reaching effects that not only the white community found threatening but the government. Niceties were always given when in public, yet most political leaders at the municipal, state and federal level were overwhelmed with what his presence was doing globally. They knew when he showed up the world was watching. His message of peace was too close to the southern conscious, they couldn’t look themselves in the eye with any morals. They knew they were wrong, but it was too hard to realize what had transpired in the past needed to change. They clambered down any time a Black stood up for themselves, they called it violent disobedience. The Blacks mostly protested in silence and non-violently. M.L.King was an advocate of Ghandi, along with Nelson Mandela, who realized their roads were long, hard and met with violence.

What I learned was that the CIA and the FBI need to control the Blacks. King’s death was definitely a conspiracy along with hundreds of other men that came before and after him. The Black Panther’s for Self Defense were targeted by Hoover as being the largest terrorist group in the world. Hoover was supposed to be reporting to Robert Kennedy but he never told them the myriad of times the state police weren’t going to be protecting innocent Blacks. He allowed local police all over America to beat, thrash, and kill Blacks that were non-violently protesting.

When King died a legacy of peace was destroyed. The Blacks all over America were now going to act. The anger had welled up for far too long, they looted, damaged, and injured stores, cars, busses, schools, and whites. The nation finally stood up when they saw whites being persecuted yet few stood up when it was happening to the Blacks. Coretta, King’s wife came and walked with the Sanitation workers in Memphis. She said, “My husband would have been there and because I believe it might decrease the chance of violence, I will walk with them.” She along with the union leaders marched for hours with the federal marshals at the side of the road and locals in disbelief that this woman had the strength and courage to come and support these people.

His legacy will live on in each of us as a testament to the power of non-violence.

From Plantation to Poverty to Illiteracy

When Abraham Lincoln stood by his morals and finally abolished slavery in 1864. It took decades for this to come to fruition in the south. First the destruction and the reconstruction years after the civil war of 1861- 65 took its toll. The Blacks were in the middle of the Confederates, 11 southern states that wanted their own country. Their cultures, morals, ideologies were vastly different to the northern society. They wanted their slaves, their cotton and their heritage and to this day they defend it vehemently. Fifteen books, 10 civil rights documentaries, 5 long museums visitations and meeting 12 locals while living and breathing in the south was enough to know nothing…..but observation is a powerful tool.

Generation after generation told me that change was and is hard. I believe if it was another race of people things might have gone differently. Many people Black and White simply said this is the way it has been done for so long………we aren’t speaking of 10 or even 50 years we are talking 350 years, and as an outsider we might all be appalled but I learned that time changes hearts very slowly when you have nowhere to go and for so many there wasn’t and isn’t a reason to change, so why change…..

When the Freedom Rider’s came to Mississippi in the summer of 61, lives were changed forever and mainly for the Whites and Black’s that came south, not those living there. Hundreds of students applied to come south and live with the local Blacks. The girls that applied were scrutinized for they couldn’t have known that their lives were truly at stake. They worked setting up school and providing daily education classes for the Blacks in the small towns. They lived with the Blacks for that summer while many of the males travelled to the Black communities to try and register them to vote. Numerous local whites that wanted to comprehend the movement were forever shunned for having dinner, or even speaking with the Freedom Rider’s. The fear that Mississippi’s/Alabama's/Georgia's and the good folks of Tennessee's lifestyle, the one that the whites had established for themselves, was going to be altered, terrified people and instead of comprehending that the Blacks were entitled to the right to vote they would rather suppress them as long as they could.

Fear constricts the mindset tightening the reins on society. They brought in armored cars, caged trucks to house the hundreds of protestors, and mobilized many jails to house all those that disrupted the peace. The police: municipal, state and local FBI were in no way going to assist the Freedom Riders and anyone else who sympathized with the Blacks. Phobia’s spread like wild fire on airwaves, newspapers daily indoctrination of what the Blacks would do if they got the right to vote was rampant and fabricated. The whites feared they would vote their own people in and take over the state and all the white would have to move out. Doesn’t this sound all too familiar in South Africa? This hasn’t been the case to this day, 60 years later. The KKK hadn’t set up in Mississippi at that point but they had the Citizen Council, which was a duplicate. All white became members even if they didn’t agree with all the methodology to quiet the Blacks. The major of all four states belonged to the KKK during the 60's and watching their speeches, hatred and insolent behavior of the Blacks was overwhelming.

Johnson wasn’t in Atlanta during the Delegates Convention of 61’ when Fannie Lou Hamer spoke her defence on behalf of the MFDP that was looking to be recognized as a party. The delegates gave them a compromise that was too insulting to take so they refused it. While M.L. King, Henson and she were testifying the entire nation was watching them on national television. Johnson who had tried to stop the Freedom Party unsuccessfully many times and wished them to disappear, as he was going through a mental breakdown of what to do with the “Niggras”, as he called them, came up with a plan.  He realized that the nation would sympathize with Fannie’s story about being bullied, beaten and being fired from her plantation job. While her speech was being filmed the cameras were instructed to cut to Mr. Johnson at the White House where he made a commemoration speech about someone who had died 9 months ago. The nation went wild demanding that they be shown her full testimony and the next day they were forced to show it. Johnson’s plan back fired and he was never forgiven nationwide for the disgraceful behavior that he shown towards all Black’s in America.

Mrs. Hamer like many other were fired from their jobs on the plantations and to this day illiteracy exists amongst so many Black’s it actually exceeds the numbers in the 70’s. The state to this day has a five grade point policy that all schools need to reach a level of 3 -5 to receive proper funding. The problem is for many schools, attracting teachers is difficult because the wages are so low, with no possible industry investments in many towns and cities because those running the plants and those working at them want their children to have the best education, a vicious cycle exist.

As I drove through smaller towns their main streets were boarded up with only fast food, gas and accommodation appearing on the highways. The cotton fields were employment was possible were know being run by machines leaving people to move away from family to make ends meet. I stopped off to take photos of the cotton plantations several times never seeing a sole around. Getting low on gas I pulled into Gloria’s gas station. It was a quiet intersection about a mile outside of town and as I was paying for gas I watched the locals interact. When the two white customers entered to pay they never looked up at Gloria standing behind the desk. No words were exchanged, they simply pushed the money across the desk. I could feel the tension in my throat tightening, and my shoulders too. I leaned over the desk when they left and quietly asked if we could chat. I hadn’t planned this, it just struck me odd, that no eye contact, no pleasantries, no thank-you, nothing was said. Gloria’s entire being was one of grace, she was a tall women, spoke well and exuded warmth once she knew I wasn’t a threat. Her eyes told of a girl that hadn’t been given the opportunities this great country of theirs declares for all its citizens. Born in a country town to illiterate parents with 11 siblings education wasn’t the priority, a home, clothing and food came first, they were short on all three.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question about the south? I am from Canada and visiting the south learning about your civil rights?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know the men that just entered the shop?”

“Yessum, they get their gas here most days.”

“Do they ever speak to you?”

“No,….. they don’t.”

As her shoulder’s relaxed with mine she began to tell me about working at the factory she’d been at for 20 years. She’d been asked to be the supervisor of her section a while ago but had never been paid for it. She eventually asked for her rightful raise and was met with bewilderment, then games and to this day, she has never received any further pay for a lot more responsibility. Several weeks ago she approached her boss again and was told,

“Gloria, because you know so much we need to keep you in this position, but if you want to go back to working on the floor as you have asked, you’ll have to quit.” The last time she wrote me she was trying to figure out what she was going to do. She needed the work, but not that bad that she was going to do others people’s work for free. Just as I was going to exit the station her friend walked in.

“Jesse, she said, Can you talk to this lady?”

He had just been fired as a police officer two weeks ago.

“I was on patrol when one of our politicians was driving DUI and I pulled him over. I called my superior and asked him what to do? He said use your good judgement and I’ll back your decision. I decided not to ticket him, simply to get him a taxi home and tow his car to his house. The next day at work I was fired. I am protesting it, but they are all in this together. Even Black’s will take the side of a white superior if they think it will lead them to a raise, or promotion. The aspect of truth has left the force. I don’t know if it ever existed, look at our past he said and smiled.”

I stood for a second prior to responding.

“Do you have any recourse, or any possibility of getting your job back?”

“He raised his eye brow and said, it’s under review right now.”

Several more white folks entered the shop as I moved to the back out of the way and continued to observe their behavior. It was truly as if Gloria didn’t exist, not a child, mother or man looked up at her. I wanted to scream something, but what, wake up, this is a human being. I left the shop after thanking both of them for their time, and we all said we’d pray for one another.

I knew righteousness was something I’d fought for since high school when I demanded to our principal that ALL students deserved to attend their graduation regardless of financial difficulty. And from there I’d joined all sorts of University coalitions, unions, associations, councils and community boards to see that all are treaty and receive equal treatment.

A Cry of Voices

There was little time to reflect in between museums, some were only open for several hours a day, others certain days of the week. I gathered up my emotions and marched on in my car to the Smith Robertson Museum. I’d gone to the Margaret Walker Museum at the University the day before dedicated to the preservation, interpretation and dissemination of African-American history and culture. Nearly 2000 interviews are for your reading of the archival records of the Black culture, Margaret’s academic and artistic legacy along with the former U.S. secretary of Education. Few rugs are left unturned and yet sitting on a ledge at the University observing the thriving culture of students, their history seems impossible.

 

Why was it that we thought we knew better? Even my numerous trips to Africa to teach, were fraught with moral issues when I arrived and met my 60 teachers exceeding me in so many fields, like ingenuity. I had to teach students reproduction a video, text or experiment, one man simply went into their courtyard and took a flower from a nearby tree and voila. Why were we being asked to be here instead of using local teachers? Yes, coalitions, bridges, finances, the sup de jour yet it is I that learned while in Africa, I was humbled, not them. I recall destroying my entire curriculum after 3 days and starting over with their input.

 

Pam was anxiously awaiting me as I descended the stairs at the Smith Robertson Museum.

“Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, there was an incident?

“No problems someone said I could go into the museum. Is there fee I need to pay?

“Don’t worry about it?”

“I would actually like to contribute to the museum it was very good.”

“Sure….”

 

I don’t recall the first question I asked her and what brought on a rush of emotion my eyes couldn’t hide but Pam was a women steeped in history.

“This place has hardened me, it’s okay (my tears) it is hard to comprehend what we do to one another.”

By the end of an hour I was forever indebted to her words. The sadness that had washed over me had context. She began with the slaves.

“They took the biggest, brightest from Africa, and people wonder why that nation is in mourning and behind civilization. When you take leaders, the voice of politics, the logistical men of our tribal villages, and yes even the morose aspects, people are left floundering. Then put into place the colonization of so many African nations for hundreds of years, is it any wonder than when the oppressors left, the African’s did everything wrong. We’d watched another people for so long we forgot who and what we were.”

 

“The African story hasn’t been told. You need to go back prior to slavery. That is African history, what we know, what is told is the story that they were subjected too. A culture where many families’ stories end just walking to the coast, or dying waiting in the bowels of a boat in port. If you were one of the lucky ones that survived the trip, you might have died in trade, while being transported on land, while in the field, at the hands of another man, and no one had a record of any of this. All these stories are not of their making, so that isn’t their history. They are simply the recipients of it.” She reflects for a second and says, “I guess everyone history has those elements of takeover, but not to the extent or the duration of African’s.”

We, me, I don’t have a proper connection to my past. My parents told us where my ancestors came from, but the kids today, the kids committing so much violence in our city, in America, they are disconnected”, as she extends her arms to embrace a continent 8000 miles away lost to the last 16 generations. 400 years is a long time to be hold onto a culture where the message has been watered down, it has less and less meaning with each voice desperate for understanding.

 

Her petite frame remained steadfast as my eyes fixed on hers transposed from present to past.

Life on the plantation was just that. That isn’t a story you pass down, it is a reality you live. Most families were split up in the plantations, so what history is passed on is done so by the whites who imposed hundreds’ of years of our children not playing with toys, not looking up to their role models for acceptance, proficiencies, livelihoods, ambitions, and prospects. Home and field slaves joined forces of despair, hardship, loneliness, brutality………………….but what penetrates deep is the lack of who you are as a person, a people. That is what African’s need to regain.

 

The plantation.

It wasn’t a visit, it was a people sentenced to never have a voice. The plantations are sometimes gloried by both sides as a time period whereby Blacks were sold to individual cotton plantation owners and work for them. What is not told is the generation after generation 400 years of these people’s lives spent at the control of others. Imagine never having a say, never being asked, never speaking out of term, what breaks a man is his spirit. Today police use violence in Canada, yes Canada to break men that they feel information from. They terrorize them, and our federal government has a law that allows them to hold someone without bail or a lawyer for weeks. Have we come that far? The Blacks of the South were not educated. They worked long hours, not sunrise to sunset, when the boss woke us up at 4:30 we got up and worked until far after the sun returned to the earth to rest. Depending on how much cotton we picked, we were either allowed to return to our shack or beaten for not picking enough. Sleep, that word wasn’t in our vocabulary. We laid down for several hours each night as many as 15 people in a 10 square foot room. Our children as soon as they could walk were out in the fields, picking cotton. There was little water, our clothes hung off our bodies tattered, torn and we smelled awful. Day in and day out, on Sunday we were forced to listen to our masters recite the bible, this wasn’t our bible, it was the white mans. So is it any wonder as a people we aren’t as advanced, would your culture be?

Jackson on a Prayer

The road from Birmingham to Jackson takes a southerly curve and as sure as the sun is going to rise tomorrow the heat was coming. Mrs. Larence was at the tourist office when some sassy kid enters and burps as loud as he could. The father looked at us and said, “I didn’t do it.” The kid sheepishly apologized and then just out of ear shoot the dad says, “Some folks are just……” I holler after them that manners were free. This continues for some time, people enter act rudely, don’t bother to register, ask impossible questions, huff and puff and these two lovely ladies didn't bat an eye.

“Here is a hotel in Jackson in this brochure and it has a coupon too, said, Mrs. Larence." This is news to me, not being up on bargains, I praised her. She calls and makes a reservation and tells me how much further it is, more Governor chats than a women can handle. Just as I am leaving I ask Miss Larence if she ever become disappointed with the people.

“They aren’t my kids, I wasn’t there when they were born or brought up. You can’t let all these people upset you.” There is a relinquish tone in her voice.

The streets are bare on this Saturday morning. A lone police officer seems at odds when I ask him if it is safe to walk around.

“Sure I’ll be here at the state capital all day, you want me to escort you somewhere lady, you call if you need help.”

“I would like to walk to several monuments is it safe, it seems rather desolate.”

“I guess so, never had anyone ask me that before, everyone drives.”

I got in my car and drove to each building, walking the perimeter and then driving another 3-5 blocks and doing the same thing until the first museum opened up.

STAND UP – was the exhibit and it was so fitting. I spoke to Louise a glorious large black women who had a smile to melt the hardest souls. “This exhibit gets into detail about the Freedom Writers, it is difficult, let me know if you have any questions and you can take a seat here if you need a breather."

On May 4, 1961, a group of 13 African-American and white civil rights activists launched the Freedom Rides, a series of bus trips through the American South to protest segregation in interstate bus terminals. The Freedom Riders, who were recruited by the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), a U.S. civil rights group, departed from Washington, D.C., and attempted to integrate facilities at bus terminals along the way into the Deep South. African-American Freedom Riders tried to use “whites-only” restrooms and lunch counters. The group encountered tremendous violence from white protestors along the route, but also drew international attention to their cause. Over the next few months, several hundred Freedom Riders engaged in similar actions. On September 1961, the Interstate Commerce Commission issued regulations prohibiting segregation in bus and train stations nationwide.  http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/freedom-rides.

The exhibit moved further into the lives of Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman, and James Chaney all killed by a KKK lynch mob near Meridian, Mississippi. The three young civil rights workers were working to register black voters in Mississippi, thus inspiring the ire of the local Klan. The deaths of Schwerner and Goodman, white Northerners and members of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), caused a national outrage.

During most hearings of the Freedom Riders, the judge turned and looked at the wall rather than listen to their defense, just as had been the case when sit-in participants were arrested for protesting segregated lunch counters in Tennessee. He sentenced the riders to 30 days in jail. Attorneys from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) a civil rights organization, appealed the convictions all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which reversed them.

Martin Luther King had come to Mississippi to preaching at the same time to 1000 congregates while a mob of 300 angry whites showed up outside the church and beat them up. King summoned Kennedy to bring in the federal troops and they did temporarily. But the governor and city major within days said they could handle the crowds and placed them own men on guard. The police never showed up at any of the train stations, and bus depots when the Freedom Riders arrived leaving them to be beaten up with bats, lead pipes and wild dogs while the police stated it was Mother’s Day or they were ill informed as to where the group was going to be. Kennedy wasn't responding as his mission was focused on the Russians. It wasn't till the incident in Birmingham that the federal guards were brought in to protect them.

I left this exhibit completely demoralized. Why couldn’t the south see that if they integrated the Blacks, Hispanics, and Native American’s they could have been a role model for the nation? Their state could have demonstrated that by treating all equally they were creating a model society lifting the spirits of all those that reside, providing opportunity, creativity, ingenuity and growth of the mind, soul, and body.

What struck me was the written documentation of speeches from the day by city officials, police, city majors, governors and senators. Segregation must be…. It is what keeps our society in check. They (being the Blacks) need their own schools, hospitals, restaurants, water fountains, cinemas, shops, and churches. There is no room for desegregation, they like it and so do we. Hundreds of recorded documents from judges claiming that no Black would ever receive a fair trial, better they go to N.Y. instead of living here. I often wondered if the Blacks had all left who the southern folks would blame for their ignorance.

It is no different today. Blacks attend public school and white attend Christian or private schools.  Restaurants house either or, some do both, shops allow both but there is a distinct security and tonal disposition when I walked into a dress shop with a Black woman. The church I attended was all Black, not a white soul to be seen, they welcomed me with open arms. When I asked if things are better, everyone will say yes, if you dig a little deeper, most if being honest will say that the will to fight is gone on both sides. Status quo has become accepted. The last voice I heard as I drove away was the present governor speaking about how he had provided such great education for the Blacks in THEIR schools. The word “ours” is generations away.

Louise was generous enough to share her experiences after I had completed my tour. We sat away from other folks and she began to tell me her story. Born in a little town outside of Jackson, her grandfather was a slave and worked for white folks in their home. Her father wanted better for his family and moved into Jackson. Times were tough in the 1960’s she said. Racism was rampant and her parents were strict. “No talking to any white folks, they used to tell us. Look down when you’re walking down the street, and better yet never be on the same street as them." Louise had an older sister who fancied one of the white boys, she was almost tarred and feathered by her own family when they found out. “It was bound to happen she said, but why my family. Everyone knew. My dad put an end to that real fast. My sister was sent off to live with a relative for years.”

“What to you seems odd, became normal for us. There was always a heightened awareness that you don't have to live with in Canada but you got used to it for the most part. I think Jews could understand, always looking for the German Nazi’s over their shoulder, never being home. We too were looking to see if we had done something wrong. Our parents had no tolerance, it was hard enough for them to get an education and there wasn’t any they weren't allowing us to get one. There were many lynching that my parents kept from us. I don’t know why the Blacks didn’t start killing some of them, it might have balanced things out, but we never did. We didn’t have guns, she says as she laughs, I guess that was the issue, but we could have got them, there was enough white that sympathized with us.”

“Now,” she said. I think most Blacks like to trick themselves into thinking things are okay, better, and they are, but we still have a long way to go. I have a University degree, and no offense but this is the only job I’ve been able to get. Jackson isn’t exactly the metropolitan center and even as the capital it’s hard to find good work.

“Do you ever want to leave and find work elsewhere in the country?”

“Naw, my family is here, and this is my home.”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Does working here ever make you boiling mad?”

“I’ve had so foreigners that don’t get it, they can’t believe it happened, they just can’t wrap their heads around it. Then I mention WWII and they begin to comprehend, but the time period really throws them for a loop, 400 years, not 5 or 9 or even 15 years. It’s a long time to oppress a people.”

I thanked Louise for her candidness and walked into the late morning sun of 80 degrees, cold, despondent and empty.

 

 

Learning from Within

Boxes, clothes, pots, spices, hangers, condiments, strew in the living room as I observed the sanctity and chaos of my home base one last time prior to heading down concrete into the unknown. Scribbles of directions led me around states, hikes, campgrounds, monuments, town, cities, freeways and museums. The Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham, Alabama was preceded by the governor hashing out his intent for the upcoming election, what he was going to do for the middle class. Tom, a local lawyer I’d met five hours, 2 museums into my day, thought otherwise. Birmingham had no middle class, there was the poor he pointed out as he guided me to fields of houses with few windows, and damaged doors, and backyards that were needle turfs.

“Those folks made about $15.000 a year.”

“And those, pointing up a freeway 15 minutes out of town make about $100.000 dollars.”

So you tell me who the governor is speaking about?  He is protecting the whites, and I am white so I know the game he is playing. These folks don’t have an advocate, they left here with the abolition of slavery and they ain’t never looking back. Tom was a lawyer and court judge on his way to the courthouse across the street from where my car had decided to die. One of the window wasn’t shutting and try as I did to lever my fingers into the socket to pull it up, it wasn’t budging.

“Can’t leave your car unlocked here, there'll be nothing left.”

Just as my trip had begun it couldn’t be over so quickly, I had so much to learn.

Tom leaned up again the curb and began to tell me his story. 70 years old, born in Birmingham just outside of town and followed in his father footsteps into law. He left here with his family when he was in this late 30’s and headed to Seattle because like his father he had been threatened by too many white that wanted the status quo to remain.

“That’s where I learned about the south. I was so close to it I couldn’t see through the forest. I realized how I had been behaving and I favored desegregation, but I couldn’t see a path through it until I understood some basic facts and it was in Seattle I learned that not all blacks and whites reside and exists as we do down south. Many communities co-exist, and quite amiably.  

My first inclination was to judge the judge, yet the longer he drawled on the more sense he made to someone from the outside. Being white had its advantages but he had been brought up in segregation and as mentioned earlier, it was more of the north vs. the south mentality that was hard to overcome than the black vs. the white, they just happen to be in the south when the war broke out leaving them stranded with the outcome.

I’d entered the museum having read many books over many years I felt confident in some areas, what was most striking was the fight and the good fight they put up for decades, and it doesn't reside today. Wall after wall went into great details about simple folks like you and me, seeking out an existence as a nurse, carpenter, or the owner of a diner. The difference being the lack of opportunity from the time you are born many people from slavery well into the next century, knew their plight,  like the caste system of India, the challenges laid in the political structure that allowed no growth, no breathing room, no hope, no optimism, no faith, no prospect that something different could be exist. From the education system to buying groceries, all sectors were and are segregated. And, like Canadians they do it politically correct now, but unlike is their history.

The blacks attend public school were problems arise daily, the white mainly attend Christian or private schools. The restaurants, grocery stores, movie theatres, and churches are deeply segregated. Most politicians like it that way….. keep them at bay…. Without rocking any boats and our society will work fine.

The problem is after speaking with Lucy, Jenny the attendants at the museum and Jeffrey a 69 year old man, things haven’t changed. Yes, you can get a job, but look where I am working they all said, low paying jobs that don’t allow us to climb any ladders.

A Belgium gentleman and I listened and  watched the video the video prior to entering the museum. We chatted briefly of what had transpired in his country and I so wanted to spend the day with someone, anyone. This was reality and seeing it in front of you in the museum and outside on the streets was like “Back to the Future” the difference was the world thought that the progress was perfectly acceptable. It wasn’t, it was nothing short of slavery in the 21^st. century.

The African American Museum left me staggering out of it bewildered at how humans can treat one another with such distain. This was someone’s child, I always thought about in school, even kids that drove me to gray hair, they were someone’s love, someone babe, and they deserved my respect.

Tom went through all aspects of society in that hour and landed on football. I’d had the misfortune of tuning into the 24 hour football radio show and been aghast in laughter at the stupidity of it. Alright, I’m not a footy, but how many times can men analyze someone's pass, their punt, the outcome, the stats, without boredom killing the soul? The message today and several days thereafter was about the men that had beaten their wives. Tom admitted as did the radio hosts that if they opened up the real truth, Pandora’s Box would never close, and football would be forever gone. It is accepted that many players have affairs, hit their wives, have moments with young boys, and a blind eye is placed on all of it, for the love of the game. And, the spectators are not at the mercy, they are the ones in control, in the driver’s seat, and yet they now not.

Tom spoke of a young boy who had received a scholarship to a high ranking University for Football and had recently been caught stealing King Crab legs and under ware from a local supermarket.

“The kid was from here, but what does he get for a role model, some hyped up sport player that makes millions of dollars and doesn’t have a clue how to behave. So what do they expect, he’s 19, never had a dad, absent mom and he’s making mistakes, everyone does, but they haven’t been given a full scholarship, been assisted with all his classes cause he couldn’t pass them on his own, but he can play ball."

“We are sick when it comes to football, American’s are willing to kill a kid’s future for their team to win. Here tonight at our stadium the most hatred rivalry is happening and whichever team loses they will go down hard, not only in the ranking, but the media will choose several boys to rat out and their lives are made hell until the next game. It is a disease that needs to be stopped, but we the spectators are the only one who have control of that. STOP going to games.”

Man did I want to go to a game that night, but being a women, there was no chance that it would it be wise or safe. My sparse hotel room and meeting up with the curator of the second museum took most of the evening, it took all of it, as I was emotionally drained.